Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my
morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege
of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood
bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.

As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at
8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the
receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not
yet over.

‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short
pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’

Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a
range of retorts pushed into my mind:

I’ve ruptured my
foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;

I’m farting so much
I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame;

I tried on my wife’s
bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung;

My testicles
are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like
depth charges.

But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.

‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’

‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must
ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’

‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the
lady’s awkwardness.

***

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later,
listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up,
there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to
one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone.
Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might
have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the
middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking
receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction?

And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was
planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood
trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I
imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.

But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were
likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard
another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.

‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she
announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of
my cherry.’